Camberwick Green: A Quiet Night In
by Ursa Dextra
Summary: Windy Miller is a man of many talents; relationship advice is not one of them. (Direct sequel to The Big Night Out.)


A chilly November evening at Colley's Mill. In the copper light of the sunset, Windy Miller is sitting on an upturned bucket and is surrounded by chickens. One hand is playing a little tune on a penny whistle, the other cradling a mug of cider. In recent years, his hair has turned ivory-white and grown long enough to form loose ringlets that drift in the breeze; he has also taken to wearing a large multicoloured poncho, that Paddy Murphy brought back from his travels in Central America, over his trademark farm smock. Along with the familiar conical hat – a little frayed and faded after a couple of decades of heavy use, but still giving good service – he's beginning to look quite wizardly.

A vehicle is approaching from the direction of Camberwick Green. It's hard to see in the twilight, but the rackety-tackety sound is distinctive as it struggles to the top of the hill. The venerable baker's van shudders to a halt beside the granary, and Mary Murphy hops down from the driving seat. She is wrapped in a chunky coffee-coloured duffle coat and a red scarf, which is pulled up to her nose. She waves to her good friend, and he waves back. He finishes the last of his cider, and comes across the yard to meet her.

"Evening, Windy!" she says, "Dare I ask what you're up to?"

"Oh, nothing. Just playing the chickens a little tune before I shut them in for the night. They seem to like it, they lay well when I play music to them."

"Are you drunk again?!" Mary replies, laughing.

"Not particularly," says the miller innocently, head on one side, "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I suppose you've said stranger things that turned out to be true."

"Sometimes Mary, the less believable something is, the more likely it is to be true. Do you know why? Because, if someone is telling you a lie, they'll be working hard to make sure you believe it. If someone's being truthful, they'll simply recount the facts as they happened – even if it isn't altogether plausible."

"I suppose so."

"Anyway, what brings you here at this late hour?"

"Oh, yes – Dad got a big order for tomorrow just before closing time. We're going to need some flour, eggs, honey, whatever you can spare really."

"Certainly! I have all of those things in my stores. How about a few apples and pears, too? I have plenty of them, they need using up."

"Well, why not?"

The two of them load up the van together and then do a little light accountancy, by which time the chickens are lining up and filing into their little wooden hut behind the granary.

"Chickens make me laugh," says Mary, "the way they all form a queue to go to bed as soon as it's dark."

"They're lovely things, aren't they?" Windy replies as he bolts the door behind the last one, "They all have their own personalities, you know."

"I'd love to have some of my own one day, but I don't know if I ever will."

"Hm? You sound sad."

"Oh, I suppose I've got a lot on my mind. What I want to do with my life, you know. What I might end up not doing."

"Well, you have plenty of time to decide. How old are you – twenty? The chance could come when you're thirty, forty, fifty... Don't despair. Those chickens might be waiting for you one day."

"Maybe. Anyway, I - I'd better get home." She turns away hurriedly and trots back to the van.

"Oh, Mary? Before you go, can I ask a favour?"

"Hm?"

"A few of my sails could do with a bit of repair work, and I'm afraid I'm not quite as spry and nimble as I was. I wondered if perhaps your young carpenter friend would be able to give me a hand sometime? It's not urgent, just whenever he's got an afternoon to – Mary, are you feeling alright?

She is crying.

"Mary, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Has he left you? I didn't know, honestly."

"It's not – it's not that," she says, struggling to hold in her sobs, "Nothing – nothing he's done, I just – just don't know..."

"Oh dear. Why don't you come inside, I'll put the kettle on."

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd – it'd be good. You're always right about everything, maybe – maybe you'll know what to do."

"I'm afraid affairs of the heart aren't my specialist subject, but if I can help I will."

"You have to let me get the water, though." She tries hard to crush he face into a smile as she dries her eyes on her coat sleeve.

"I'll get the fire stoked up," he says, and potters off indoors.

Mary crosses the yard to the well. It worries her to see Windy drawing water by himself, as she's heard for too many people make comments along the lines of 'He's going to fall down that well one day,' but she's always told him that her insistence on doing this whenever she visits is down to politeness. She also still finds it slightly magical to lower a bucket into a pitch-black hole, hear a distant, echoing splash, and winch it back up full to the brim with clear, icy cold water. Tonight, as she lifts the bucket, the reflection of a fat gibbous moon stretches and splits into concentric rings on the surface of the water; in her heightened emotional state, it sets her off sobbing again. Her hands are already so cold it doesn't make much difference to dip them into the water and splash her sticky face whilst she composes herself. Scarf pulled up over her nose again, she heaves the bucket up to the living quarters of the mill.

It's a rare honour to be invited inside; although Mary is a regular visitor and considers Windy a close confidante, she hasn't been into the living space for several years. It's instantly comforting to see that very little has changed. The circular room has had its floorspace slightly elongated by the presence of a bank of cupboards and shelves to one side, build two hundred years ago to fit the exact curve and incline of the wall, under the window and over the door. Following clockwise along the wall comes a table and chair, complete with stack of paperwork and inkstand. Next is the little stove, flanked by a rocking chair and a bucket of logs, and lastly a flight of steps and system of winches up to the workings of the mill, with a bed wedged in under the stairs. Little talismanic objects made of straw and willow hang from the roof beams, and some incongruous postcards and souvenirs from Paddy's travels brighten up the windowsills. In the centre of the room is a chunky oak roof support with a bracket for hanging an oil lamp; this is exactly what Windy is doing when Mary arrives with the water.

"Come in, sit down," he says.

"Do you remember when I was small," says Mary as she settles into the rocking chair, "and I used to sit in this chair and pretend it was a boat?"

"As if it were yesterday."

Windy fills his singing kettle from the bucket, then fetches a tray of tea-making paraphernalia from the nearest shelf. He takes off his hat and poncho and brings over the other chair.

"I have some cake, too. Chocolate cake. Would you like a slice?"

"Oh no! I had a cake to bring you, I forgot all about it!"

"That's not a problem, I'm coming into the village in the morning. I can pick it up then."

"I'm so useless at the moment. I just can't think about anything except – you know, how stupid it all is."

"Tell me what happened," says Windy gently.

"No-one's told you anything?"

"Nothing at all."

"Oh, right." Mary sighs, wipes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. "Well, it was four days ago. What happened was, he asked me to marry him, and I..." She can't stifle her tears long enough to finish the sentence.

Windy brings her a hankie. By the time she's pulled herself together, the kettle has boiled and he's making the tea.

"Sorry about that," she says, trying to smile, "where was I?"

"Don't worry, you're allowed to be sad sometimes. You were saying that you turned down his proposal."

"No, no! I didn't turn him down. I just said I wanted some time to think about it. But – well, you know how sensitive Nibs is, he just saw it as a personal insult. The more I tried to explain, the more upset he was. In the end he just went home in tears. We were in a restaurant in Trumpton, loads of people were staring at us. It was really embarrassing. I tried to ring him the next day, but his mum answered and said he wouldn't talk to me. Which just doesn't happen, you know, whenever we've had a bit of a tiff, he's just wanted to make up again by the end of the day. I tried again, his dad answered and said 'I think it's better if you leave him alone for a while.' So I don't know if that's the end now, or what. And even if we patched it all up - how long would we last together, knowing we have different futures in mind? Do I even want to be with him, knowing he can have outbursts like this whenever I put my feelings before his? Because it's not the first time, it's just the first time he's not come and apologised. Part of me almost wants to say 'plenty more fish in the sea', but I can't just stop caring about him. Not after all we've been through together. I still love him enough to feel awful about hurting him. I do, I love him. What if it doesn't happen again, and we're both just stuck alone forever because of this? And all that time I spent getting to know him, learning how clever he is and how deep he is and getting him to open up to me, what if it's all just gone to waste? And if I love him so much, why don't I want to marry him? Does that make sense, or do I just sound like an idiot?"

"Oh dear. It's very complicated."

"My parents think I'm an idiot too."

"They don't think that. They're very proud of you."

"I mean, about this. Because I didn't just say yes straight away. They really got on with him, they thought he was a nice lad."

"I see." He passes her a mug of tea, and pours one for himself. He opts not to sit back on the chair, but to lie on the rug facing the ceiling with his arms behind his head and his cup balanced on his chest.

"I was just happy as we were, that's all. And now I've blown it."

"Hm. Tricky."

"You can say that again."

"You always seemed very happy together."

"We were."

Mary gazes off out of the window into the night sky. There is a long pause. The fire hisses and pops away like a well-used record. The charms suspended from the ceiling twist and sway on their strings as the heat rises.

"I was surprised, more than anything," she continues after a quiet couple of minutes, "I wondered if maybe his parents had put him up to it. I could imagine them going 'Ooh, make an honest woman of her' or 'Do it before you _have_ to' or something. I wouldn't put it past them, they're a bit like that. But I said to him, before he ran off, I said it was very sudden and I needed some time to think, but he said he'd been building up to it for three years."

"Three years? I didn't realise you'd been together so long."

"Oh yes. More like three and a half. He might have been exaggerating, but it's possible."

"I suppose it must be."

"And the stupid thing is, if he'd have asked two or three years ago, I'd have said yes in a heartbeat. I nearly brought it up myself a few times, but it never really seemed the right moment. He was all I cared about back then. But just this last year or so, I – it's not that I'm bored of him or anything, I've just got other things on my mind, you know? Things I want to do that maybe I couldn't do with a family in tow, and the whole getting married and having kids thing isn't that exciting anymore."

"Aah – the bakery?"

"What about it?"

"Aren't you taking over the bakery when your father retires? He told me you were, a few months ago now. He seemed very pleased. 'Overjoyed' was the word he used."

"Oh – yes, well, I promised I would, but that's years away. I've got fourteen, fifteen years, maybe more. And I've been thinking of all the things I could do before I have to knuckle down to some serious work, and just sort of assumed that Nibs could come with me or do his own thing while he waited, or... I don't know, whatever he wanted. I didn't expect this."

"I'm sure you could manage some chickens together, or on your own. They aren't difficult, once you get into the habit of letting them out and shutting them away."

"Chickens?"

"You were talking earlier about wanting some chickens one day?"

"Oh! It's not just chickens. I mean, I want to, you know, see some life. I've pretty much promised Paddy I'll go on one of his adventures sometime. Last time he was home, we were talking about places we'd both like to visit. I got a letter from him the other day, do you know where he is now?"

"Is he still in Egypt?"

"Yeah! He's trying to earn some money by letting people practice their English on him. He sent photos of the pyramids and the desert and all sorts of things. Can you imagine? My brother, in Egypt! I could be there with him one day. Or anywhere."

"I'm afraid that kind of thing sounds a little bit _too_ much fun for me. I get enough excitement reading his postcards. But each to his, or in your case her, own."

Mary smiles, and finishes her tea. She turns her attention to the fire, the way the flames gently caress the logs and seep into their cracks, eroding and splitting them into smaller and smaller pieces. Another couple of minutes tick quietly by.

"I think I'll close my eyes for a while," says Windy presently, "but I am listening."

"Are you tired?"

"No, just resting my eyes. You can tell me more news if you like."

"Did you ever meet my friend Winnie?" Mary asks, "Winnie Farthing?"

"Hm. The name rings a bell."

"I knew her from Girl Guides. She went to my school, but she was a couple of years younger than me so we weren't in the same classes. I used to look out for her at lunchtime because the other kids picked on her a lot."

"Oh yes, I remember you telling me. The potter's daughter."

"That's right. Well, I bumped into her a while ago when I was out shopping, so we went to get a cup of tea together and catch up. She said she's going to university! She's going to do a degree in Literature. She wants to be a teacher. Isn't that amazing?"

"Well yes, I suppose it is."

"Obviously I always knew it was something I could do if I wanted, but knowing that my friend is actually doing it makes it seem a lot more real, you know? Do you know what I mean? As if it's gone from something that people like me just talk about to something that we do."

"That's interesting. I'll have to have a think about that another day."

"Obviously I still want to run the bakery, but I could do something else before then. I mean, I could dig up dinosaurs or be a doctor or... anything. I could be an expert in something. I mean, there's nothing wrong with being an expert in making bread, but I could do something else as well. But how do you choose? That's the question. So I started looking at evening classes to get me started, and I could learn an instrument or a language or... I could do all of them!"

"Your mind has clearly been very busy lately. Perhaps some time to yourself is what you really need."

"Looks like I'll have plenty of that."

"You know you're always welcome here if you fancy some peace and quiet."

"Thanks."

There is another long silence. The miller sits up to drink his tea and put another log on the fire, then lies back down as if asleep. Mary finds her mind drifting back to the restaurant where she'd sat with Nibs, giggling at each other's attempts to eat spaghetti tidily. It had been their first day off together in a couple of weeks, frittered away on a leisurely stroll in the countryside, then back into Trumpton for some dinner. It'd been a good day, a very happy day. The waiter had taken the plates away, and they'd been engaged in their traditional deliberation over desserts or coffees; a ritual designed to ensure that they wouldn't arrive back at his house until after his parents' bedtime, so they'd have some time alone together.

"Mary? Can I... ask you something?" he'd said, from behind the menu.

"Hm? What is it?"

"Do you think – you know next time, do you think – maybe we could... go shopping?"

"That'd be good. What for?"

"Well, you know."

"I don't know, no."

"I mean – at the jeweller's?"

"The jeweller's?"

"Yeah. For – you know, for – for rings?"

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" she'd said incredulously, pulling the menu out of his hands so she could look in his face and make sure he wasn't joking.

He'd nodded, lower lip between his teeth, eyes still fixed on the paper in front of him.

"Oh! Right." Mary had laughed, fanned herself, and fallen into a fit of giggles.

"So... would you?" Nibs had said, reaching across the table to close his hand around hers.

"Well, I – I don't know."

"You _don't know_?!"

"I don't mean no, I mean – well, one day, when we're both ready to settle down, then I might want to, but not right now."

"What do you mean," he'd said, snatching his hand away, "aren't we settled down now?"

"What I'm trying to say is, we haven't really talked about actually getting married before, have we? It's a bit of a shock."

"We have talked about it, loads of times!"

"We've sort of joked, but..."

"Joked? It was a _joke_ to you? You've just... just strung me along? All this time?!"

"Calm down. That's not what I said."

"Three years, Mary! You don't know if you want to be with me, after three years?" His voice had begun to stretch up to a different octave. The couple at the next table had noticed.

"Shh... Why don't we talk about it another day? Give me some time to think it over, at least."

"How long would you leave me hanging on?" he'd asked, a note of panic in his voice, "Another three years? All my life? _Why_?!"

"You're being silly now. Everyone's staring."

"How long, Mary? How long do want me to wait for you to... make your mind up?"

"What are you in such a rush for all of a sudden, anyway? I'm twenty, you're twenty-three, we've got plenty of time to have adventures and do whatever we want. It's not that you've done anything wrong or I don't want to be with you or anything, that's not what I said. I just don't want to end up like my mum or your mum, never doing anything with my life except tidying up and cooking dinners until I really, really care about tidying up and cooking dinners. Do you see what I mean? I'm sorry, I'm sorry if it sounds like I'm not serious about you and me, but I have other things on my mind right now."

And he'd stared at her open-mouthed. And he'd tried, really strained, not to break down in tears; but to no avail. She'd watched him quiver then crack then crumble like a wall under bombardment, with no idea what she could say to make it easier on him. And everyone in the room had noticed and murmured about it, and Mary had never wished so hard that the ground could just swallow her up.

"I loved you!" Nibs had wailed through his sobs, "I – I loved you, and – and it was – a – a joke – to you!"

"Please, calm down," Mary had said, trying to claw back as much dignity as possible, "Let's just carry on as we are for a bit longer, we have a good time together, don't we? Why change anything?"

But he'd slammed some money down on the table and run for the door. Someone had tutted, someone had laughed, a few people had said 'Ooooh!' in unison, someone else had clapped slowly and a couple of others had joined in. Mary had reached a plane of mortification that she'd never realised existed, and the waiter had come venturing over with the bill.

"Windy," she says quietly, "are you awake?"

"I'm awake."

"You've never been married, have you?"

"No."

"You must have had a break-up then."

"Hm. I don't think I have, no. Not that I remember."

"You'd remember."

"Then no."

"You've never been in love?"

"I've loved several people very much, but I don't think in quite the way you mean. I was always married to my work, I suppose."

"Don't you get lonely, though? Up here on your own all the time?"

"Oh, I don't have time to be lonely. Anyway, I have the cows and chickens for company, plus plenty of visitors. Hardly a day goes by I don't see somebody. Why, do people worry about me?"

"A bit, yeah."

"Tell them I'm perfectly happy, but it's kind of them to think of me."

"You _will_ ask if you need a hand with anything, won't you?"

"Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you! I just think sometimes - well, you're only going to get older, and it's not going to get any easier up here..." she trails off, and shrugs.

"Mary! My mother worked this mill by herself into her seventies, and she wasn't even a miller. I'm only sixty-two. I have plenty of time."

"So – if your mum was alone, where were you?"

"This was during The War."

"Oh, of course! What did you do?"

"You don't know?" The miller opens his eyes and gives her a curious look.

"No, you never mentioned it. I can't picture you as a soldier."

"Hm. It seems our neighbours have forgotten, if not forgiven."

"Forgiven...?"

"It may surprise you to learn that when I was young, it was illegal to not kill people."

Mary is caught off-guard by this very rare example of sarcasm, and isn't sure how to respond; so she waits for him to continue.

"I was with the Awkward Squad," he continues after a moments' thought, "Conchies. You have to understand, it's very hard to know what to believe in wartime. Half the news is made up. As far as I was concerned, the government wanted me to kill or be killed for the sake of a difference they had with some other government, so said I'd rather go to prison. They'd send me to do some farm work for a while, I'd abscond, they'd lock me up for a couple more months, back to the farm, back home, back to prison. That was how I spent the last of my youth. I did meet some interesting people though. Saw a bit of life, as you put it."

"Wow. I had no idea."

"I wasn't very popular for a while. It's strange how fighting and killing become virtues in wartime. Mum always supported me though. Always. I couldn't have wished for a better mother."

"You don't mention her very often."

"Don't I? I should do."

"What was her name?"

"Margaret-Rose Miller."

All of a sudden, Windy sits up and glances around the room, wide-eyed, as if expecting to see her there; he turns towards Mary, but stares right through her and through the wall behind, over the hills outside and deep, deep into the sky. Only for a moment; then he snaps out of it, blinking and shaking his head. Mary slips down from the chair and kneels beside him, one hand on his back.

"Windy? Are you OK?"

"I lost myself briefly. That last cup of cider must have just reached my head. Heh."

"Did you see her?"

"No."

"But you do sometimes, don't you?"

"Not so often now."

"I heard that she could talk to the dead. It makes sense that she talks to the living now."

"That's true. She was a powerful hedge-witch."

"Maybe that's why you never fell in love. She watched over you and protected you from hurt with her magick."

"Perhaps you're right. Romance seems to cause a lot more problems than it solves; but that might just be my view from the outside."

"I think I'll give the whole thing up for a while."

"That's wise, I think. Sometimes i wonder if it is a form of love, or more a form of madness."

Mary clasps her arms around her old friend and rocks him gently back and forth. The fire burns low. The moon begins to track across the window.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" she asks.

"Do you need to go?"

"Well, my parents know I always stop for a chat, so they won't be worried yet."

"I enjoy our chats. I always learn something interesting."

"Me too."

"I'll put another log on the fire then. How about some more tea?"

"Let's have more tea. Windy?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think you could teach me some magick?"

"Perhaps a little. I'm not half the witch my mother was. But one requirement is not to be afraid of the other realm, and you certainly weren't afraid just now."

"I'm not afraid at all. I just want to be happy again."

"That's not too difficult. Here, take this log. Hold it in your hands." He passes her a lump of wood from the barrel beside the stove.

"Right?"

"Now close your eyes, and imagine all your pain and confusion pouring out of your fingers and going into the wood. Force out every last drop. Can you feel the log soaking it all up?"

"So you want me to imagine that..?"

"No. You have to really believe it. Know it. I'll give you a minute, then we'll put it on the fire and watch your troubles burn away."

Mary isn't altogether sure what she's supposed to be imagining, but by the time the log is aflame it really does feel as if some sort of spiritual cleansing is taking place. She kneels on the floor for half an hour or so as the log is reduced to ash, smiling at the symbolic sight, and enjoys another cup of tea before saying her goodbyes and trundling back home to bed. And as she falls asleep, the log burns away again and again on the undersides of her eyelids.


End file.
